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unscrupulous gangsters paid no attention to the quality of the product they merchandised. As you are no doubt
aware, a number of people died from bad whiskey. Everyone knew, however, that if they purchased whiskey from
Bill McCoy, it was safe, and usually of the highest quality.
Patrons would ask the bartender if the drink was the McCoy."
    Then, he pointed through a window. "Now, back to business. Here is where the grain is unloaded and the corn, rye,
and barley are placed in their respective bins prior to being
ground."
    I had to admit, it was quite an operation. I realized I
wasn't getting away without seeing the entire plant, so I
was determined to get in my share of questions.
    He continued his explanation of the various operations
in the distillery. He pointed out the grinding mills, huge
machines shaped like upside-down U's. He spoke with the
staccato beat of a machine gun. It was almost like he had
some obsessive-compulsive disposition where the distillery
was concerned.
    I struggled to squeeze a word in edgewise. "I didn't see
you out at the accident yesterday."

    He pointed out where the various grains were stored after
grinding. "Now, this ... huh? Oh, no. I wasn't outside. I
was upstairs, checking chemists' reports. I glanced out the
window and saw a small crowd, but I had no idea what
had happened."
    I remembered catching a glimpse of a face in the secondfloor window. It must have been Jackson's. "So, you went
on back to work?"
    He gave me an embarrassed grin. "Like I said, I didn't
know what had happened. All I saw was a group of people.
And in all truth, I'm not too comfortable in crowds, but I
did attend the reception. In fact, I saw you with Mrs. Morrison's grandniece. Why ..
    I slipped another question in. "But you knew Emmett
Patterson pretty well."
    For a moment at the mash tubs, he paused. I saw a flicker
of something in his eyes, nervousness, impatience. "In all
candor, too well. I didn't like the man. He was a lazy and
slipshod employee." He gestured to the cookers, quickly
shifting the subject. "Here is where the corn is cooked to
two hundred and twelve degrees. Then we cool it to one
hundred and eighty, add the rye and cook it again. That's
how we make the mash. Once the mash is cooled to one
hundred and forty-five degrees, we add the malted barley.
Now, up ahead is the yeast laboratory. You'll be amazed
at what we have accomplished. Why ..."
    His words faded as I glanced out the window at a black
Lexus passing, each tire stirring up tiny puffs of white dust.
"Why didn't you fire him if he was such a poor employee?"
    He reached for the doorknob and without hesitation, replied, "This is a business, Mr. Boudreaux. We all have
supervision."
    I followed him into the lab, surprised at the sterility of
the room, but curious as to the obvious implication of his
remark. "You're telling me Mrs. Morrison refused to let
you fire him?"
    He arched an eyebrow. "All I'm saying is that when I
suggested we replace Patterson, my recommendation was rejected." He picked up a test tube. "Here's the amazing
project I was talking about, a sample of our own strain of
yeast which is cultured and protected from contamination
and outside influences by careful bacteriological techniques. One of a kind, it is a pure culture yeast-Saccharomyces Cerevisiae-developed from a single original cell
and carefully propagated and maintained until a vigorous
strain was produced with its own particular properties to
produce whiskey possessing desired characteristics. We
made our first breakthrough in nineteen-eighty-eight, and
we constantly strive to improve the yeast."

    I was lost after here is a sample of our own yeast.
"That's nice," I lamely replied, but I went right back to my
earlier question. "Why would she refuse to let you fire
him?"
    His voice fell back into its initial reticence. "She signs
my pay check, which is quite substantial. Her business is
her business. Mine is mine. I